Raf
The session had stretched well into the night. They’d circled the same battlegrounds—parenting schedules, Ethan’s latest arbitration ploy, and, of course, the house. This house. Raf’s sanctuary. Her last piece of solid ground.
Jennifer had laid out contingencies with the cool precision of someone who’d gutted bigger men for less. But she’d also listened to the silences, to the tremors Raf hadn’t meant to let slip between words.
Now, standing together at the front door, Raf gives her a tired smile.
“We’ve got this,” Jennifer says, giving her shoulder a quick squeeze. “Get some rest. You need it; we both do.” Then she steps out into the cold, her knit catching the wind as she heads toward the drive.
Raf lingers at the doorway, one hand on the knob. Then, a sharp gasp slices through the dark.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
She snaps to attention. Bolts down the front steps. Rounds the corner… and finds Jennifer crouched beside her car. Raf’s stomach drops as she sees it. Every tire is slashed and sagging into the pavement.
“Oh my God. Who could’ve—”
“Who do you think, Raf?” Jennifer rises, brushing grit from her palms. “They want to rattle you.” She turns, the wind cutting past them. “But we don’t give them that.”
The tow truck arrives faster than it should, headlights slicing through the mist, engine growling as the car’s hauled onto the flatbed.
“Call me if you need anything,” Jennifer says, pressing a quick kiss to Raf’s cheek. “Don’t let it get to you. That’s what they want.”
Then she’s gone, Uber taillights swallowed by fog.
It’s too much. Ethan’s threats, more vicious by the day. Alexander turning into something else, something monstrous, right in front of her. The grip on her wrist. The heat of his breath.
And now this. Another violation. Right on her doorstep. Did Ethan do this? Were the slashed tires a warning? Or something else entirely? She can’t stop thinking about the way Alexander looked at her. How his voice tensed, like he was feeding on her fear.
He still emails. Still texts. Every message cloaked in false concern. Every vibration a jolt of dread. But the silence is worse. Because it amplifies the one question she can’t stop asking: is she just paranoid? Or is he obsessed?